


The Machine

by DaltonG



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Fucking Machines, Loneliness, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, warning for descriptions of poverty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 23:18:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3465680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaltonG/pseuds/DaltonG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Douglas has Martin hot and bothered. Martin decides to take matters into his own hands, as it were.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Machine

  
Martin flipped the switch and winced at the instant hum. It wasn’t quite as...obvious...as the vibrators some of the female residents used, but it was still far louder than he was comfortable with. Maybe if he turned on his radio? He did so and Philip Glass was playing on the local classical station, to which his radio was permanently tuned (stuck, actually, but it had been free and he preferred classical anyway). “Music in Twelve Parts,” if he wasn’t mistaken. Excellent, that was consistently loud enough. He flipped the switch on the machine again, and the drone wasn’t nearly as noticeable.

Well. It worked, didn’t it? The wheel spun, which made the attached arm spin, which translated the circular energy into vertical energy which pushed the horizontal arm back and forth. Martin let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He was actually quite handy, but he never did anything with his mechanical skill because it felt like letting his family win. His father had worked hard to teach him to use the tools in the workshop, and to do simple electrical repairs, desperate to make his son a little more butch, to give his son a job skill that he could use to make money when his high-flying dreams came to naught. And so Martin had learned—been forced to learn, really—how to work with wood and small engines and tools.

And he had done his best not to ever use these skills, except for the occasional repair in the rickety attic flat, since his landlord was absolutely allergic to upkeep on the old house.

But Martin was desperate. He hadn’t had a date since before he came to MJN Air. Well before that, actually...he’d managed a date or two in high school, and had a few kisses. But his awkwardness and shyness combined to make it so that he had never had more than a kiss from another human.

Unfortunately, this was combined with a _powerful_  sex drive. Martin was quite the veteran of free porn websites, including rather a lot of the kinkier variety. Simply watching two people have sex with each other had become too painful, too sharp a reminder of what he longed for and would probably never have. Plus, it was repetitive. So he had, late in his teens, ventured into more unusual territory where sex was just sex and not so much a model of intimacy.

Fucking machine videos had been a favorite for several years now. There was nothing intimate about watching a woman—or a man—get pounded by a dildo on a stick. It was simple mechanics, really; insert here, pull there, have an orgasm.

Working at MJN Air had made Martin’s whole well of personal angst that much deeper. He had a very bad crush on Douglas. It was almost unbearable to sit next to the man in the cockpit, day in, day out, being teased or snarked at or losing to the object of his hopeless dreams, and his sex drive was out of control. On the rare day that he had no flights or van jobs he would sit at home and jerk off 7, sometimes 8 times a day, rubbing himself until he was raw.

An absolutely horrid overnight in Beijing, where all 4 of them had had to share a room, Carolyn and Arthur in one small bed and Douglas squeezed next to Martin in the other, brought things to a head. He was unable to sleep that night, spending the entire time acutely aware of Douglas’ every shift and sigh in his sleep, feeling the warmth radiating through their clothes from that body he wanted so, so desperately to touch in a deliberate fashion, instead of being pressed against it to keep from falling out of bed entirely. He tried so hard not to feel anything about it—just to be slightly irritated at the ridiculous situation, and regard his first officer as just another human whom any straight man would lie with only grudgingly. Instead he was plagued with a 6-hour hard-on that felt like a shaft of steel, his blood zinging every time Douglas even twitched. Thankfully he noticed as soon as Douglas was waking and ran into the bathroom, using the weak, lukewarm shower to relieve his agony in just 3 strokes with none of the MJN staff the wiser.

That night, upon returning to his chilly, drafty attic room, he had begun drawing up plans.

And now he was finished. It had taken about a month to gather all the materials. He had had to pay 2 pounds for the motor at a second-hand shop—foregoing dinner for 2 nights to make up the expense—but the rest of the materials he had scrounged for free from a craft materials place on the edge of town, a sort of hippie enterprise to recycle scraps of cloth and bits of wood and plastic to keep them out of landfills.

The dildo was something he had bought years ago, when he was still living at home and had saved up a bit from a dishwashing job while studying for his CAA exams. It was a hideous artificial pink but the silicone had held up, perhaps because he had only used it on himself a few times and kept it scrupulously clean.

Martin watched the contraption spin and felt a bit proud of himself for cobbling it together. He’d looked at some instructions online, but in the end it was his own design. He had even managed to give it a variable speed option.

It was time to try it out.

First, he would need to open himself up so that the thing could get inside him. He turned the machine off, the Glass music still loud and rather tedious in his ears, and took his clothing off, carefully hanging each piece over the back of a battered chair. He pulled out a bottle of hand lotion—the cheapest they had at Tesco’s—and lay down on his back, sighing a bit as his skin touched the cool, threadbare counterpane on his bed.

Slowly he worked the first, slippery finger into himself. He glanced down and noticed that his penis was entirely soft, quite disinterested in the proceedings given his rather nervous state of mind on thinking about the risk of being discovered, either through the machine sound rising above the music, or a moan escaping his lips, or someone barging in with some inane undergraduate question about life. The fact that he had a cheap lock on the door did not quell that last fear, though he knew it was illogical.

He closed his eyes and tried to think about something sexy. An image of Douglas raising one eyebrow at him, as he did when Martin chuckled at his more clever witticisms, drifted into his mind’s eye, and Martin felt his cock thicken and straighten where it lay on his stomach. He sighed and pushed a second finger in, sliding the digits in and out of himself, feeling the stretch on his ring of muscle stay just this side of too much.

He gave his shaft a little stroke with his other hand, just enough to bring it to full attention, and impatiently squeezed a third finger into his hole. By now he was picturing Douglas dancing with Carolyn at a restaurant in Hamburg on one of their recent flights. They’d had a bit to drink, him, Carolyn, and Arthur, and gotten a bit silly, and Douglas had ended up pulling Carolyn to the dance floor only half-ironically. Martin had smiled, watching them, and was a little surprised to see just how graceful Douglas was, gliding and spinning and even dipping Carolyn once, leading to her chastising him loudly and clinging tightly to Douglas’ shoulders. Martin had felt a small burn of jealousy in his stomach, even though he knew there was nothing between them. He remembered how Douglas had caught his eye over the hotly protesting Carolyn and had winked at him. His fingertips grazed his prostate, as he lay on the bed remembering, and he gasped.

Time to move things along. He pulled out his fingers and fastidiously wiped them on tissues that he used only in these circumstances (too expensive for something as frivolous as nose-blowing). He took the dildo in hand and slicked it up as best he could with the lotion. Positioning the rubbery head at his entrance, he pushed it slowly in, grunting lightly as it breached him and then sighing again as it slid deeper.

He gave a few desultory tugs on his penis, focused on pushing the dildo in and out of his slippery passage. Finally it slid with ease, and he pulled the phallus out and laid it on yet another tissue, unwilling to use up more lotion to re-slick it. His nose wrinkled in distaste at the faint scent of himself.

Rolling off the bed, he stood and picked up the dildo. Gently, he fastened it to the business end of the machine’s pumping rod, pleased when it slipped into its holder with no damage. The switch was flipped, the engine hummed, and the dildo jabbed back and forth obscenely in the air.

Right. Now to get it inside him.

He lay back down on the bed, put his feet firmly against the mattress, his knees bent, and waited.

Nothing happened.

Of course, he was too far up the bed. Silly Martin. He scoffed at himself and slid his butt closer to the end of the mattress, where the dildo began jamming itself into his thigh. He edged a bit to the right and let out a muffled shout when the dildo unceremoniously poked into his ballsac. And again, and again, even though he closed his legs almost instantly.

He scrambled back up the bed, and gingerly felt his scrotum. No actual damage; it had been more of a shock than anything else. He thought ruefully that although he was damn good at mechanical work, his sense of three-dimensional space was and always had been less than ideal.

The machine continued plunging the fake penis into the air merrily.

He walked over and turned it off, then with relief turned off the decades-old Glass composition which had begun to feel like it was carving tunnels in his brain.

He looked down at the innocent ball-punching device thoughtfully. Clearly, he had to figure out some way to have the dildo already inside him when the machine was switched on. But adding a remote control would be far too expensive. What to do?

Just as he envisioned fastening a long stick of wood to the switch—something he could easily use from the bed—he heard students yelling and laughing as they came home from their weekly pub crawl, and he knew he would have to wait until his next experiment could take place. Glumly he cleaned everything up, stored the machine back in the curtained hole in the wall that served as a makeshift wardrobe, and perfunctorily jacked himself off so he could sleep.

* * *

  
The next week, their flight was delayed two hours due to a storm in Fitton. When they finally landed, Carolyn had a surprisingly large stack of forms that she needed filled out in the portacabin. When both Douglas and Martin complained, she replied,

“There wasn’t a chance I would tell you about these before the flight, because you both would have found a reason to get out of it. They are due tomorrow, so stop being such lazy pilots and just sit down and fill them out, like good little drivers.”

Martin felt like he was vibrating, he was so anxious to get home. Tonight was pub crawl night. The Switch Remote Operation Device (SROD) had been procured, attached, and tested (with all clothes on and the radio blaring, of course, just to make sure it worked). His cock had been half-hard all day and he felt his anus squeeze in anticipation as he filled out form after bloody form.

“Sir seems a bit unhappy about paperwork tonight. Does Sir have a hot date?”

Martin jumped and blushed, and Douglas grinned.

“Finished, there, all done, have your forms, Carolyn, have a good night all, see you tomorrow,” Martin said in a rush as he strode from the little room.

Then his van wouldn’t start.

After getting a jump from Arthur—which took about 20 minutes longer than it should have, because Arthur couldn’t understand how the manual was instructing them to attach the jumper cables, and Carolyn had to chime in with her opinions, and Douglas drove over to watch the entire process, amused, and Martin had to get a small shock when Arthur tried to start his car up again before the cables were removed—Martin was finally on his way home.

The students were gone. He stumbled his way up the stairs, almost dizzy in his state of aroused expectation. Last week’s preparations were repeated, with the exception that stretching went from one finger straight to the dildo, resulting in some soreness that Martin resolved to ignore. Finally the dildo was attached to its rod, then carefully reinserted into Martin, who inched himself onto the head and then slowly edged his way further down the bed and further onto the satisfying, filling column of silicone.

And then he grasped the SROD and flicked the switch from his prone position on the bed and gasped as the ersatz penis began to slid in and out of him. At first, it was almost popping out, which would be bad—undoing all that work to position it correctly. So he scooted down a bit more and there, there...that was it...he could feel the machine fucking into him now, not too fast (he would have to change the speed by standing up, so he could only have one speed at a time), filling him deeper and pulling back and filling again, over and over and over. It was different than the few times he had tried fucking himself with the dildo. It felt less masturbatory, more like someone else was doing it.

It felt damn good, actually.

He canted his hips a bit and there, it was pushing on his prostate in a deliberate, unrelenting rhythm. A whimper escaped his lips. He reached up for one of his pillows and tore the case off, stuffing it in his mouth. One never knew when the students would return; it would _not_  do to be caught.

He imagined what it would look like, if one of them managed to break the bicycle lock on the door and come in. There he was, naked, spread on the bed, his knees splayed, his cock hard, red, and leaking on his stomach, and this, this _thing_  pumping into him.

It was obscene.

It was maybe even sinful.

He took hold of his cock, pressing his forearm over his cloth-filled mouth. _Oh God_ , he groaned unintelligibly. This felt magnificent. His hips began to move without conscious thought, making the prostate hits irregular, but he couldn’t stop himself. His hand moved faster on his shaft, pulling the foreskin up and down the rigid erectile tissue. It was already getting sore—he didn’t usually waste hand lotion on his cock—but he wasn’t even aware of it, all his attention focused instead on being touched by something other than himself.

“Oh. Oh, oh, _oh_!”

With no warning, he felt his own warm jism jet onto his skin. One shot made it to his neck. His body clenched everywhere, his channel pulling tight around the silicone. After a few ejaculations, he began to relax and was startled when the dildo hit his prostate again and one last squirt came pulsing out of his cock.

“Ohhhhh,” he groaned into the pillowcase.

Suddenly the dildo was very, very annoying, mindlessly continuing to plunge into him when he was well and truly done. He dragged himself off of it, rather impressed that the rubber attachment ring was sturdy and did its job keeping the dildo in place, and he spat out the pillowcase and looked down at the milky stripes of cum painting his torso.

“Wow,” he whispered to himself.

He used the SROD to turn off the machine, and in the sudden quiet, he felt a sad hollowness settle over him.

Yes, it had felt good. It was definitely more interesting than ordinary masturbation.

But the machine couldn’t cuddle him.

He curled into a ball on his side and pushed his face into his pillow to muffle a different sort of sound.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the end! I can't leave poor Martin curled into a little lonely ball. Eventual Martin/Douglas (and possibly Martin/Douglas/Arthur). 
> 
> The Philip Glass piece, "Music in Twelve Parts", can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kAzhzEjkdcI). I listened to a bit while writing this to make sure it was a sustained sound that Martin would find reassuring in its steady loudness and I'm sorry, I do love a lot of Glass' work, but this piece, of which I was formerly unaware, really is...not my favorite. And I only listened to about 3 minutes.
> 
> There really is a place where you can trade bits 'n pieces for crafting, buy things for very low prices, and even get some things free, but [it's in San Francisco](http://www.scrap-sf.org/creative-reuse/creative-reuse-resources); however, I am now declaring that a little shack outside of Fitton stole the idea and ran with it.
> 
> (Note that I've added relationship tags based on plans for future chapters.)


End file.
